Undertaker's Apprentice
by ghostwriter1341
Summary: Undertaker has vanished, leaving not a trace behind. When a newcomer suddenly appears to take his place, Ciel finds himself dealing with a woman whose past is a foggy as London itself. Ophelia Abbot claims that she has nothing to do with her predecessor , but Ciel isn't so trusting. She's hiding something behind her smile...
1. Chapter 1

Ciel Phantomhive marched rather quickly up to Undertaker's establishment. Whether he was to be found there or not, tension could only be suspended for so long. Ciel hadn't seen or heard from the crazed grim reaper in months. Bodies began piling up in London. There were graves to be dug with no one to dig them. Coffins were dwindling. Nowadays, people were placing the bodies without any kind of preparation. Then, suddenly, work was being done. Funerals were given their usual decorum. Families could bury their loved ones once again. Her Majesty was growing anxious. So many dead bodies could easily contaminate the water supply. London breathed a sigh of relief, though the loyal Watch Dog could not. This visit wasn't merely to find out for the queen's sake what had caused Undertaker to suddenly stop business, even if he did raise those _things_ onboard the Campania. No, Undertaker enjoyed his job too much to let it slip so much.

Ciel strove towards it, but he nearly missed it. There was something strange going on here. Something very strange indeed. He had nearly walked past the building, never realizing that he did. Sebastian called out to him.

"Sir, you've seemed to not notice the change with Undertaker's building." The butler pointed out.

Ciel walked towards him, a look most foul painted on his face. He was nervous, anxious, and above all angry. But all of these emotions were evaporated when confusion threw itself into the mix. Undertaker's funeral home had transformed overnight. There were no skulls or discarded coffins lying in the street. The walls seemed to have been painted an egg-shell white color. A wooden sign hung above the door indicated the building was still in use by an undertaker, just not _the_ Undertaker. It other words, it looked professional.

Without hesitation, Ciel burst through the front door, expecting Undertaker to be there or perhaps one of his creatures raised from the dead. Instead, he was greeted by another abnormal scene. Abnormal in this case meant that there were chairs and tables for furniture instead of coffins, the grotesque displays of bones and anatomical models vanished and replaced with flowers and various knick-knacks, and above all a desk, littered with papers. A woman in black seemed busy at the moment shelving books. Her thick, flamboyant red hair was pulled into a pony-tail. Ciel cleared his throat.

She turned to him, adjusting her glasses. Ciel feared for just a brief moment that perhaps she was another grim reaper, but lucky for him, she wasn't. Her eyes were a bluish-grey color. She smiled politely.

"What can I help you with, sir," she resumed her task of placing the books in her arms back where they belonged.

"I'm looking for Undertaker."

She paused for a moment. There remained one last book tucked in her arm. Shaking her head and heaving a sigh, the woman placed her book silently. She turned to him fully, but then quickly retreated behind her desk where she sat. The glasses were removed from her face and her gloved fingers rubbed her temples.

"Do you have any idea what sort of trouble that madman got me into? I had to dig up those bodies that had not been properly buried. Twenty-two bodies. Twenty-two! If I ever find him, I swear I will ring his neck!" She placed her glasses back on. She smiled again. "Do forgive me. You cannot imagine the stress I have been under."

"Just who are you?" Asked Ciel, skeptical and cautious.

"I'm the new undertaker. I came in when I heard that my predecessor up and vanished."

"Vanished?"

"Why yes. Apparently no one has seen neither hide nor hair of him in the past three months. Excuse me," she rose from her hair, curtseying. "I almost forgot to introduce myself. My name is Ophelia Abbot."

"Miss Abbot," Sebastian stepped forward, "Are you certain you haven't seen him? He is rather easy to find."

Ophelia returned to seating herself. She rolled her eyes. "Believe me, if I found him, I wouldn't be the only one to know. He's certainly made a lot of angry customers."

"And how does a woman become a mortician?" Asked Ciel.

"Same way your aunt became a doctor. Granted I had a more difficult time. I was an orphan, however often from humble beings the greatest people arise…"

"You know about Madam Red?" Ciel asked.

"Yes, of course. Who wouldn't? It wasn't exactly a secret, now was it?"

"Indeed. I apologize for my behavior." Ciel said rather humbly.

"You mustn't be sorry, milord." Ophelia chuckled. "Please, feel free to come back any time. Because he wasn't the only one with connections to London's underworld. So, I do plan to see again. But hopefully not too soon. To be frank, I'm swamped and have little time to answer any questions." She placed her hand over her forehead in an over-dramatic manner. "Work, work, work, nothing to do but work."

"Pardon us, then, Miss Abbot. We were merely inquiring the whereabouts of your predecessor. As he isn't here, we shall be on our way," said Sebastian. "Come, sir. I'll have a cup of tea ready for you when we arrive home."

Ophelia straightened up and rose from her chair. She moved quickly to fetch the door before Sebastian lifted even a finger towards it. Her smile seemed genuine enough.

"Have a good evening, gentlemen." She waved them off.

They left quietly.

"Sebastian, tonight I want you to see what you can find out about Miss Abbot. It seems very odd that a new undertaker simply appears out of nowhere right after the first disappears." Ciel ordered.

"Indeed, sir. I shall see to it as soon as possible."

Ciel looked up towards the skies. A dark cloud was on its way to cover the entire city it seemed. Looked like rain.

* * *

Midnight

Ophelia set aside the book she was reading by lamp light. Stretching and yawning, she rubbed her tired eyes. The pitter-patter of heavy rain sounded like a lullaby by the time she reached half way through the fifth chapter. She left the book on her ottoman, intending to pick up where she left off the next night. Taking the oil lamp, Ophelia walked towards her bedroom. In the short distance from her living room to her bedroom, she barely touched the knob when a window swung open in the place she just left.

Putting down the lamp at the base of the door, she sprang back into the living room to find her one window fluttering inside the room, allowing Mother Nature to wreak havoc on her living space and furniture. The wind howled and the rain poured in. Ophelia fought back, pushing towards the window. Her glasses quickly were overwhelmed by rain and other debris. She could barely see what she was doing. Her now wet hands groped for the locks. It became a battle between Mother Nature and herself, and it seemed the Mother Nature was winning. Leaves flew around her, littering her floors. The cold wind became daggers against her skin.

All of sudden, a pair of arms reached for the windows, slamming the shut. Ophelia quickly locked them once again and double checked that they would stay put. Her eyes were drawn to the pale hands lingering on the window panes. No doubt they would leave prints she'd had to clean up along with the rest of her small flat. Ophelia knew these arms very well. She didn't mind that the man who owned them caged her in between.

"I really wish you'd just use the front door." Ophelia mumbled, taking her glasses and wiping them dry.

An arm wrapped around her waist, further caging her and imprisoning her.

"But where's the fun in that?" _His _voice sent delightful shivers down her spine.

"Undertaker, would you please release me? I have to get up." Ophelia said more firmly.

Reluctantly, he released her. Ophelia dusted off the leaves the clung to her fleece robe and tried to flatten her dampened hair. She turned to him as she fixed herself up, marching to the mirror hung on the opposite wall, though it seemed rather pointless. She could barely see anything in the dark, having left her only source of light by her bedroom door. She felt her cheeks blush. Sooner or later, she'd have to go and fetch it and Undertaker was known for staying overnight, especially recently.

_Perhaps I should resign myself to _it_ now? There's no point in resisting._

Undertaker came from behind, hands already untying the robe's belt. His nails lightly scratched her neck as he cupped her face, forcing her to look into the mirror. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and his eyes were so vibrant that she could make them out anywhere. Ophelia stared into the mirror, gazing as if in a hypnotic trance at the reflection of his eyes. Where ever he touched her, with what skin he could expose for the moment, left burning trails. His fingers never remained in one spot for very long. Ophelia could already feel her knees buckling. The only reason why she wasn't on the floor was because Undertaker supported her with one arm snaked about her waist, holding her up.

"Do they suspect anything?" Undertaker whispered against her neck.

Ophelia shook her head, shutting her eyes. She couldn't look at herself when he was doing _this_ to her. It was far too embarrassing.

"Ah ah ah, use your words. And do look in the mirror. I want to see your eyes," his teeth nibbled on her ear lobe.

Ophelia's eyes snapped open upon his command. He had a way of controlling her, and she sort of liked it.

"T-they came looking for you, but I doubt that they suspect…me of knowing your whereabouts. They most likely think that I'm…innocent."

Her arms suddenly felt cold. Goosebumps rose up and down her exposed limbs. The robe pooled at her feet. Undertaker's lips danced across her shoulders, placing butterfly kisses and making her skin grow even hotter against his such.

"Good girl. I believe you deserve a reward."

"A-a reward?" Ophelia dreaded and anticipated this.

"Yes, darling." He pulled at the ribbon still in her hair. The red tresses tumbled smoothly to her lower back. His hand instantly ran through it and titled her head so he could have better access to her neck. "A reward for being such a good actress."

"B-but this is wrong. This is…ah!" Undertaker cut her off nibbling at her weakest spot, her vulnerable throat. She could turn to a puddle of liquid if he continued this treatment.

He sucked at her skin, listening to her soft whimpers and the brief mutterings of refusal. However, both of them knew she was going to cave into her own desires. She finally was at the point where society's expectations of a woman melted away. In public, she obeyed every social convention when it came to sexual virtue. When she was alone with him, Ophelia was putty in his hands, willing to do whatever he wanted. It was extremely easy to tease her, even easier to make her aroused and make her skin burn.

Undertaker released her throat, whispering sweet nothings in her ear. Her form trembled against him, violently with anticipation. She might not be able to take much more than that without doing something about it.

"Bone white skin, blood colored hair, and eyes like the dismal fog that surrounds us all in the cesspool known only as London. You're an exquisite specimen and yet you keep trying to be a _proper lady_. But just how many mornings have you woken up beside me, bedecked in my marks and bruises? This skin, this hair, and these eyes no longer belong to you alone. Who was it that _exhumed _you? You owe me your life and you have repeatedly stated that you would do everything in your power to aid me. Let's face it, you love me more than your rescuer, more than the man who took you in, who sheltered you, fed you, clothed you, and educated you. You love me and love what I do to you. So put away your petty, virginal ideals and let me give you my reward."

His voice sent shivers all over her skin. It bordered between insanity and lust. And he was also right.

Ophelia wet her lips and offered him her neck willingly. Undertaker's deep chuckle rumbled in his chest, which she felt even through the layers of clothing they both wore. Instead of kissing her throat again, Undertaker scooped her up like a bride and carried her off to the bedroom. Her eyes were glued to his face. His face was unreadable, as always.


	2. Author's Note

I would like to make a formal apology to my fans. I have chapters ready to be downloaded, but alas, my computer decided to start hating me and it's currently located at a repair shop until at least tomorrow, maybe possibly longer. I would write those chapters on the family computer, but it's just not the same. I have weird habits that must be performed for my creativity to flow properly. This applies to all of my work, not just fanfiction. So again, I apologize for the lack of updates. You will have new chapters shortly. Have patience, if you please.


	3. Chapter 2

For a while, Ophelia believed that she was back inside her coffin, buried alive. All she could see was nothing but a black void. Instinctively, her hands reached out above her. Instead of feeling the harsh, unrelenting wood, her fingers were met with only air. She opened her eyes hesitantly. Dawn's light pierced through the thick veils of her dark curtains. Dim sunlight poked in between the space between the forest green curtains. Ophelia breathed a sigh of relief. Years, it had been so many years since that night. The events and horrors that took place were still very fresh in her mind. Some nights she was even too afraid to fall asleep out of fear she'd wake up in that coffin again. Undertaker, as insane as he may have been, was ironically her only thing tying her to some sort of sanity. Nothing else could have kept her from going mad herself. Which was why she let him do things to her.

Ophelia looked over at her bed; however he was nowhere to be found. Her shaking hand pressed against the part of the mattress where he slept after _rewarding _her repeatedly. It was still warm. He hadn't left her alone for very long.

Her glasses were placed neatly on her bedside table, unlike her clothes that had been scattered across the room without any sort of pattern. Undertaker didn't like wasting time. Her hand reached for her glasses and placed them on her face. A mirror was not needed to see how much damage Undertaker did to her sensitive skin. She didn't need one to see the multiple love-bites and hand-sized bruises. Everything below her waist ached. For a man who complained about his age, he certainly didn't show it in the bedroom.

Ophelia sat up in her bed and leaned against the engraved headboard. For the time being, she would rest for a few minutes more. However, she couldn't rest for too long. If she didn't show up by noon, all of London would worry that yet another undertaker had vanished. Whether she liked it or not, her job was necessary for the health and well-being of the city. Without her, bodies would start piling up again. Judging by the looks of it, it couldn't have been later than nine in the morning. She brought the sheets closer to her naked body. As she did so, Ophelia looked down at her pale hands, uncovered by her usual gloves.

She turned them over, to see the dozens of scars on the pads of her fingers. Dozens of tiny, yet very visible, scars marred the underside of her fingers. Some were more distinctive than others. Some cut underneath her fingernails. These scars were so noticeable that she started wearing gloves no matter what the season was just so people wouldn't notice them and ask her about them.

"Good morning," Undertaker appeared in the bedroom's doorway.

Ophelia covered herself to her neck with the sheet, but it was pointless. Undertaker knew from experience what she looked like without clothes. Every single inch of her skin was familiar to him. She looked away and tried to avoid his stare. He was very good at it. Without any words, Undertaker could easily silence her with just a look. The man was insane, probably more so now than he had ever been in the years before. Yet, Ophelia knew she couldn't fight him and she didn't want to. This man, no matter what others said about him, saved her life. He was the one thing that kept her alive and sane. He was literally everything to her.

"G-good morning," she turned her head to face the wall to her left, which happened to be the wall furthest from Undertaker.

"Why so shy?" He shut the door behind as he entered. Ophelia jumped when she heard the door's lock click into place. She had nowhere to run now.

Her heart began beating faster as his footsteps echoed through the small room. She didn't need to see him coming towards her. Ophelia knew what he wanted. His long finger grazed down the side of her face. She slammed shut her eyes. The color of her cheeks changed instantly. They didn't just change color. Her cheeks burned red. Blood rushed to her face as Undertaker gently took a lock of her hair. For the longest time, he simply held it between his fingers. His fingers ran through it and then let it fall out of his grasp. With eyes still closed, Ophelia felt the weight of her bed change. The mattress dipped as he put his weight on top of it. He grabbed her hands. The shock opened her eyes.

Undertaker placed each of her fingers to his lips and kissed of them. He held each one of the marred fingers close to his face and examined them. His fingernails traced along some of the scars. The sensation of his nails deftly tracing the scars sent shivers down her spine. Each one of the scars was a reminder of that day. Undertaker would never let her forget what those scars meant. It was the day she fell under his spell. Even as a child, she knew that she could never be separated from Undertaker.

"Undertaker, I have to get dressed. I-I have to go to work." Ophelia bit her trembling lip. She couldn't help but stutter when he acted like this. He made her so nervous.

"You'll leave when I say you can," Undertaker whispered, harshly.


	4. Chapter 3

Ophelia tried her best to hide her yawn as Scotland Yard rolled in a hapless man on a gurney into the morgue. Found in the light of early morning, witnesses said that he simply dropped dead. He made complaints that his abdomen was 'killing' him and he screamed bloody murder. Soon after, he fell to the dirty streets, never to rise again. Subsequently, he was run over by a carriage as he had fallen into the road. The driver was in custody until cause of death was determined. It was completely possible that the dead man fell into unconsciousness and the carriage dealt him a final blow. She wouldn't know for sure until she examined the body for herself.

Inspector Randall watched her closely as she scrubbed her arms and hands in preparation of the examination. She wore a white lab coat over her black dress. Her bright red hair had been pulled into a tight bun. Any loose strands were held back with bobby pins. Ophelia rolled up the sleeves and dawned on a pair of rubber gloves. (Yes, the Victorians had rubber gloves. I double checked.)

"Are you certified to perform an autopsy?" He asked incredulous over her qualifications. Ciel Phantomhive wasn't the only one who seemed suspicious of a new undertaker popping out of nowhere when her predecessor suddenly vanished.

Ophelia merely smiled. "If I wasn't, then you wouldn't have brought him to me, now would you?" She adjusted her glasses and turned her attention to the new body laying on her iron slab.

She worked open the body bag which was held together through the use of thin rope run through large eyelets in the canvas-like material.

The police officers and Lord Randal were amazed at Ophelia's aloofness and calm exterior at the sight of the corpse. He appeared to be just like any other dead body. But to her eyes, something was off. His clothes were a dead give away.

Without looking away from the corpse, she asked, "Did anyone undress or redress this poor fellow before he was brought here?"

"No," Lord Randall answered for his men. "Why do you ask?"

"Just a hunch," she carefully removed the body bag from underneath her subject. Ophelia examined the body without taking off the clothes. As she did so, she made mental notes. She ran her hands down the buttoned shirt and came to a solid conclusion.

"This man had been redressed before he died," she picked up one of the dead man's hands. "And look at these fingertips. Clean, smooth like a baby's bottom. No way he's ever worked in a factory. He's most likely a member of the middle class. Even so, he wouldn't go out in public like _this. _Which begs the question of why he would roam around in a shirt that is buttoned improperly."

Randall went up to a have a look for himself. He leaned over the man's unmoving torso and saw for himself that he thesis was correct. Somebody had redressed him. The button-down front was thrown completely askew.

"You're right." He sounded legitimately surprised.

"That prompts another question: why was he redressed?"

Randall saw that she withdrew from the slab and the dead man's hand landed with a thud on the metal table. Ophelia returned with a tray full of medical instruments, scalpels and blades of various shapes, sizes, and length. Going around to the other side, Ophelia made quick work of the buttons.

"Miss Abbot!" Lord Randall gawked in protest. He had never seen a woman so unabashed by a man's bare chest, even if he was dead. Ophelia didn't even blush or make the smallest sign of abasement at seeing a man's chest unprotected by clothing.

"What?" She looked up, her brows furrowed with confusion.

"You can't...you can't just do that."

Ophelia shook her head. "Then how do you expect me to find the cause of death if I can't perform an autopsy? If men are allowed to examine a dead woman's body, why shouldn't I be able to do the same with men? Double standard, Lord Randall."

The inspector and head of Scotland Yard held his tongue.

"Besides, I believe Her Majesty owns a couple of sketches of male nudes. It's the human body. It's nothing new." Ophelia continued. Her eyes were drawn to the fresh scar cutting across the corpse's abdomen. From left to right, a long scar ran the breadth and the stitches were made with black thread.

She pointed with her gloved hand, "See, see, you might have overlooked that and buried him and a driver would be in jail."

"That could mean anything." Randall pointed out.

"A botched surgery?" Ophelia suggested.

The inspector became silent again.

"This scar," she touched it with her index finger and ran it along to the other side. "is brand new. As in, it couldn't be more than a few hours, not even a day, old. And, I have another theory." Ophelia made her way towards the head of the dead man. She raised up, and felt around the scalp. Her hand must have found something interesting. When she removed it, the rubber glove was painted with dull blood.

"It appears he was also struck in the head. He was still bleeding when he died. This wasn't meant to be a mortal wound, just a blow to the head to knock him long enough to perform some twisted surgery without his permission. I figured that must have been what happened. People get surgeries to make them feel better and prolong their life. If he was in pain and walking around the streets, he couldn't have been a willing patient."

"So what are you saying? Do we have another Jack the Ripper on our hands?" Detective Abberline asked, a look of shock and disgust written all over his face.

Ophelia turned to him, but she did not smile. Her face was set in a deep frown. "Worse, I'm afraid. We're dealing with someone much worse. Jack the Ripper picked off prostitutes. As far as we know, this man was middle class and innocent. More importantly, the person who did this wanted him alive, as a twisted experiment, like a lab rat. And all of this is just before I start the autopsy. Who knows what sort of things this poor man went through at the time of his death? That scar proves that the culprit did something devious inside the victim's body. He may have removed vital organs or who knows what else! We're not dealing with Jack the Ripper. We have someone who is brilliant and a madman, just not clever enough to slip away easily."


	5. Chapter 4

Ophelia stared coldly at the mess before her. The corpse was missing a few necessary pieces of equipment. Namely, a few feet of lower intestine, a kidney, and a large chunk of stomach tissue. And that wasn't even the best part. It didn't end there. Something felt wrong as she dug with almost crude skill around the confines of the body. She felt around the area of the remaining kidney, finding it, and then found something else. Something that wasn't supposed to be there. The gloves on her hands were slick with bodily fluids. She felt a slimy tube obstructing the area surrounding the area.

She pulled her hands out. Ophelia picked up a sterile scalpel and a pair of clip-on magnifiers. First, placing the magnifiers on top of her glasses before picking up her scalpel. The corpse was already on its back. She first noticed the missing kidney after looking at the intestine. Enough of the organ had been taken to reveal one side of the victim's back. Flipping over the corpse, she then made the cut where that kidney should have been. The skill was remarkable. She felt where the kidney had been severed and the thin stitches that had been made. The killer was obviously skilled in medicine. A common butcher would never be able to make incisions such as this. Ophelia probably didn't compare to him. This murder's skill with a knife was extraordinary, which was all the more reason to fear him.

"Miss Abbot," a man's voice hollered from the top of the stairs.

She looked up to find the Earl Phantomhive and his companion, the ever-faithful butler at his side.

The door was unlocked. They must have noticed her absence in the upper room and began wandering around the morgue looking for her.

"As you can see, gentlemen, I am quite busy. I am elbows deep in a man's visceral material. However, if you insist on talking, I pray you have strong stomachs," Ophelia had paused in making her second incision in the corpse's back. When she returned her attention the task at hand, she glided the scalpel with smooth precision across the cold flesh.

"You mustn't worry about us, Miss Abbot." The butler replied. "I can assure you that the young master is very tolerate."

"Have you found anything?" Ciel asked with a rather blunt attitude.

Never leaving her task, Ophelia answered him while she removed some of the muscle and fat out of her way. "It's not so much as finding anything. It's finding what isn't here."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

Ophelia put aside her scalpel. She went to the other end of the morgue where she pulled out a pair of rubber gloves from a box.

"Roll up your sleeves and put these on."

Ciel's eyes narrowed. "Just what do you intend to show me?"

"Humor me, my lord." She held out the gloves to him.

With reluctance, Ciel removed his coat and handed it to Sebastian. His leather gloves were removed and cuffs unbuttoned. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He put the rubber gloves himself and approached the metal slab where the corpse lay. Sadly, he wasn't very tall. Ophelia disappeared from his only to reappear with a small step-stool. Ciel sigh, annoyed, but stood up on the stool nevertheless.

"Stick your hand over there, to the left," Ophelia instructed.

Ciel hesitantly slid his hand into the corpse. He failed to completely hide his dry-heave. Ophelia took his wrist and began guiding him around the confines.

"Do you not notice anything wrong?" She asked.

"Should I?"

Ophelia guided his hand towards the spine.

"The kidney on the left is completely gone. If you dig deeper, you'll be able to feel the stitches where it was cut away from the aorta and interior vena cava. The killer also expertly severed the kidney from ureter and the renal artery. This man was in severe pain when he died. Poor fellow." She looked over at Ciel, wincing as he maneuvered around the insides of the corpse. "Have you found them yet?"

"I think so," Ciel's fingers grazed across some stringy material. He dry-heaved again. His hand found the arteries Ophelia was talking about. There were tiny stitches where the arteries had been clipped and sewn together like the organs and arteries were nothing more than a handkerchief.

He quickly pulled his hand away. Visceral material splattered on the floor, nearly hitting his shoes. Ciel moved his feet just in time. The gloves were removed with flourish and his clothes fixed.

"I was just about to find out what is wrong with the other kidney over here." She picked up her scalpel once more. "I can feel something, but I can't make out what it is."

She moved the scalpel around while her other hand peeled away muscle and body material. Her movements made a wet, squishy sound which filled the room. Neither Ciel nor Sebastian said a word as the mortician worked. Suddenly, she paused. Her blue eyes narrowed behind her magnifiers and glasses. She moved her out of the way as the other cut something away.

"What on earth?" Her question was to no one in particular. Her voice barely above a whisper.

The scalpel was put aside again. Ophelia dug both hands inside again. She appeared to be digging for an item in a large bag. Her brows became furrowed and then she seemed to have gotten a hold on whatever it was she was looking for. Her hands formed a cradle shape as they emerged. There was a pop. Ophelia ran to an empty dish. With her back turned, she made the sign of the cross.

"What did you find?" Ciel asked, impatient as always.

She turned to him with the metal dish in her hand. "I believe I just found the six feet of lower intestines that I was looking for."

Ciel looked inside the dish she held.

There it was, an unnatural thing lying at the bottom of the pan. A kidney wrapped up like a present with the victim's intestines. Coated with blood, visceral material, and god-knew what else, the intestine was wrapped neatly and tied off with a bow. The sight of it made Ciel spin around and run towards the nearest trash receptacle, where he purged the contents of his stomach.

"Our victim died slowly. His intestines were removed and then the madman did this. He's no ordinary butcher, in any sense of the word. Somehow he was able to not only remove one kidney without turning the victim over, but also do _this_ in his spare time. A chunk of his stomach was also taken. Here is what I can sum up for you, the poor fellow was knocked unconscious with something hard and heavy, but only for a little while. Long enough for our madman to open up his abdomen, take the body parts he wanted, wrap up the remaining kidney like a present, and leave the victim to die. This man died from internal bleeding and stomach punctuation. The acid from his stomach leaked. It seems that our not-so good doctor didn't take the time to sew up the stomach when he was finished with the kidneys."


End file.
